When I was very little I was obsessed with Elvis, and the movie grease. In my mind, nobody was cooler than Elvis Presley. I would prance around singing “Jailhouse Rock” and “Summer Lovin’” in the leather jacket my aunt had bought me. I wanted to be a singer, just like Elvis, the king. I was convinced.
Shortly thereafter, I was introduced to The Doors. In my mind, there was nobody cooler than Jim Morrison. I would prance around singing “Light My Fire” with the blanket with a big picture of Morrison on it that my mother had bought me. I wanted to be a singer, just like Jim Morrison. I was convinced.
In kindergarten I saw the movie That Thing You Do, it changed my life. In my mind there was nobody cooler than the Wonders, and definitely nobody cooler than Guy “Shades” Patterson. I would bang on the toy drum set my parents bought me after I stressed its imperativeness to my aspirations to the beat of the movie’s title track. I wanted to be a drummer just like Guy Patterson. I was convinced.
In second grade I came across the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I purchased the album Californication and fell in love with it. In my mind, there was nobody cooler that Anthony Keidis. That year I decided to start a band. Much to my dismay, we never actually had a practice due to other members prior engagements. I would walk around the school halls singing “Scar Tissue” and “Otherside”. I wanted to be a singer, have bleached blonde hair, and tattoos, just like Anthony Keidis. I was convinced.
In third grade I became a fan of the band KISS. In my mind, there was nobody cooler than lead guitarist Ace Frehely. I even dressed like him for Halloween. I bought my first guitar and began playing. I started a band in which I played guitar called Midnight Railroad. We had one practice. This upset me because I wanted to be a guitar player just like Ace. I was convinced.
In 5th grade I was the captain of my hockey team. I wanted to be a professional hockey player. I was convinced.
I started a band in 8th grade called Crash. I decided to quit hockey and make music my main priority. I was going to sing, play guitar, and write songs for the rest of my life. I was convinced.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sometime in 5th grade showing the only person I knew at the time that shared my love of music and singing, my grandfather, my favorite record at the time....slipknot:
Me: isnt this great?!?!? (headbanging more than i usually would. looking back i was probably doing it impress him in some way or another.)
Papa: There's no melody. you need melody! you can't hum to this. ( mind you this is coming from a man who sang proffessionally back in the day, and in his many sagas claimed to have crossed paths with Sinatra in his line of work)
Around 8th grade:
being the inquisitive person he was, he would constantly ask me questions about myself as a setup to giving me advice. a question I found myself facing quite a bit from him was the question of what I want to do with my life. withou hesitation I would reply, "I want to play music, sing just like you did, and write songs. he would respond, "singing is good and singing is fun, but its no carreer. Look at your cousin jay, he is the best guitar player I know, he is almost forty, he is single, alone, has hardly any money, and eats spahgettio's. Now songrwriting, that's a talent. you could write songs, have famous people sing them, and make lots of money." No Papa, I would say calmly but proudly, I want to sing the songs that I write.
A question I find I've been asking myself alot lately:
If he were still around and could hear the way I sing, play, and write now as opposed to when I was 14, would he be more supportive of my carreer choice?
Thanksgiving 2007 ( sophomore year):
He arrived at my house and sat down in the living room on the wine-red luxurious yet fashionable chair he loved so much. As the two of us sat down and commensed usual conversation, he began to tell me one of his many stories about his singing carrer and his many experiences. By the second sentence of the story I knew I had heard it at least 10 times before, but I dind't mind. The stories he told became a bit monotonous but I was determined not to let him know that because aside from the obvious reasons that I loved him and didn't want to hurt his feelings, his strories truly were great and he told them with such passion. His enthusiasm for telling the story captivated me just as much if not more than the content itself. Then, somewhre in the middle of the story, for reasons I am still unaware of, I began to space out. I was brought back to attention by, "And there must have been 10,000 people cla- Matthew, you're not listening, are you?" In pure shock and embarrassment i quickly responded, "Ya, I'm sorry I'm just tired." But I was lying. I was not tired. He immediatley smiled and said, "that's okay." That was the last story he ever told me.
December 6th 2007:
My mother Walks into my bedroom early one morning to wake me up for school. She tells me that she can't drive me because she had to go to the hospital because, "Papa fell", she said trying so hard to be strong. She did a pretty good job at it too, but I could see right through her. I think her hiding her fear was more scary to me then the condition of my grandfather. That morning I was driven to school by my next door neighbor/lifetime family friend. So many thoughts were racing through my mind i didn't even seem to notice the beeping noise the car was making until I heard from the driver seat, "You know, that annoying beeping won't stop until you buckle your seatbelt." my semi-optimistic yet nervous thinking was brought to a hault. I clenched my lips, dug the tip of my tounge into the roof of my mouth, exhaled forcefully through my nose, and buckled my seatbelt.
My blissfull ignorance was shattered by the phone call i recieved from my father immidiattely after school:
Me: Hello
Dad: Hey matt, listen so it turns out Papa had a stroke, a pretty bad one. He's bassically braindead and is hooked up to a machine right now.
Me: Is he gonna make it?
Dad: I don't think so.
As I sat on the train home I looked around my seat.... there was no seatbelt.
Later that night my father and I went to the hospital, and entered a dark room lit up by only the screens of the machines keeping him alive. There, we saw my mother; a zombie and in an absolute daze, And my grandmother leanig over my grandfather with her face buried in his still beating chest (he was very much unconciouss but still alive) saying over tears, "Oh Barry, you said you'd never leave me."
December 7th 2007:
School had just gotten out when my father called me again to tell me that this was it. Tonight We were going back to the hospital to say our final goodbyes. We arrived at the room to find him in his bed surrounded by his family. My mother was holding his left hand and my grandmother, his right. And as the beeping of the machines grew slower and slower, a single tear came gently rolling down his face. I was not crying until this point and probably wouldn't have had I not seen my mothers reaction of uncontrollable bawling to this lone tear. Somewhere in between the avid "I love you"'s that filled the room, I walked over just beside him as he slowly began to fade away and said, "You'll live through me forever." Everything became very blurry after I said that. He died minutes later.
Words of Black Elk, a Lakota Sioux Holy Man:
"You have Noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the power of the world always works in circles, and everything tries to be round... The sky is round and i have heard the earth is round like a ball, and so are all the stars. The wind, in it's greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nests in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours... Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.
A Conclusion I've Brought Myself to:
The Things that happen happen are unpredictable, and nothing goes the way we plan it to. But I beleive no matter what it is that is happening; good, bad, happy, sad, it's all for the best.
Me: isnt this great?!?!? (headbanging more than i usually would. looking back i was probably doing it impress him in some way or another.)
Papa: There's no melody. you need melody! you can't hum to this. ( mind you this is coming from a man who sang proffessionally back in the day, and in his many sagas claimed to have crossed paths with Sinatra in his line of work)
Around 8th grade:
being the inquisitive person he was, he would constantly ask me questions about myself as a setup to giving me advice. a question I found myself facing quite a bit from him was the question of what I want to do with my life. withou hesitation I would reply, "I want to play music, sing just like you did, and write songs. he would respond, "singing is good and singing is fun, but its no carreer. Look at your cousin jay, he is the best guitar player I know, he is almost forty, he is single, alone, has hardly any money, and eats spahgettio's. Now songrwriting, that's a talent. you could write songs, have famous people sing them, and make lots of money." No Papa, I would say calmly but proudly, I want to sing the songs that I write.
A question I find I've been asking myself alot lately:
If he were still around and could hear the way I sing, play, and write now as opposed to when I was 14, would he be more supportive of my carreer choice?
Thanksgiving 2007 ( sophomore year):
He arrived at my house and sat down in the living room on the wine-red luxurious yet fashionable chair he loved so much. As the two of us sat down and commensed usual conversation, he began to tell me one of his many stories about his singing carrer and his many experiences. By the second sentence of the story I knew I had heard it at least 10 times before, but I dind't mind. The stories he told became a bit monotonous but I was determined not to let him know that because aside from the obvious reasons that I loved him and didn't want to hurt his feelings, his strories truly were great and he told them with such passion. His enthusiasm for telling the story captivated me just as much if not more than the content itself. Then, somewhre in the middle of the story, for reasons I am still unaware of, I began to space out. I was brought back to attention by, "And there must have been 10,000 people cla- Matthew, you're not listening, are you?" In pure shock and embarrassment i quickly responded, "Ya, I'm sorry I'm just tired." But I was lying. I was not tired. He immediatley smiled and said, "that's okay." That was the last story he ever told me.
December 6th 2007:
My mother Walks into my bedroom early one morning to wake me up for school. She tells me that she can't drive me because she had to go to the hospital because, "Papa fell", she said trying so hard to be strong. She did a pretty good job at it too, but I could see right through her. I think her hiding her fear was more scary to me then the condition of my grandfather. That morning I was driven to school by my next door neighbor/lifetime family friend. So many thoughts were racing through my mind i didn't even seem to notice the beeping noise the car was making until I heard from the driver seat, "You know, that annoying beeping won't stop until you buckle your seatbelt." my semi-optimistic yet nervous thinking was brought to a hault. I clenched my lips, dug the tip of my tounge into the roof of my mouth, exhaled forcefully through my nose, and buckled my seatbelt.
My blissfull ignorance was shattered by the phone call i recieved from my father immidiattely after school:
Me: Hello
Dad: Hey matt, listen so it turns out Papa had a stroke, a pretty bad one. He's bassically braindead and is hooked up to a machine right now.
Me: Is he gonna make it?
Dad: I don't think so.
As I sat on the train home I looked around my seat.... there was no seatbelt.
Later that night my father and I went to the hospital, and entered a dark room lit up by only the screens of the machines keeping him alive. There, we saw my mother; a zombie and in an absolute daze, And my grandmother leanig over my grandfather with her face buried in his still beating chest (he was very much unconciouss but still alive) saying over tears, "Oh Barry, you said you'd never leave me."
December 7th 2007:
School had just gotten out when my father called me again to tell me that this was it. Tonight We were going back to the hospital to say our final goodbyes. We arrived at the room to find him in his bed surrounded by his family. My mother was holding his left hand and my grandmother, his right. And as the beeping of the machines grew slower and slower, a single tear came gently rolling down his face. I was not crying until this point and probably wouldn't have had I not seen my mothers reaction of uncontrollable bawling to this lone tear. Somewhere in between the avid "I love you"'s that filled the room, I walked over just beside him as he slowly began to fade away and said, "You'll live through me forever." Everything became very blurry after I said that. He died minutes later.
Words of Black Elk, a Lakota Sioux Holy Man:
"You have Noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the power of the world always works in circles, and everything tries to be round... The sky is round and i have heard the earth is round like a ball, and so are all the stars. The wind, in it's greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nests in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours... Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.
A Conclusion I've Brought Myself to:
The Things that happen happen are unpredictable, and nothing goes the way we plan it to. But I beleive no matter what it is that is happening; good, bad, happy, sad, it's all for the best.
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